D-Day
In June, 1999 I boarded a train at the Gare du Nord in Paris
headed for Calais. It was an early
morning trip on an older train that spent a good portion of the morning
meandering through the Normandy countryside. It was a pleasurable ride to a destination of great
importance and significance. It
was the 6th of June and the 55th anniversary of D-Day.
I have many memories and mental images of that day; standing
on Omaha Beach with my back to the sea and looking at the still visible German
gun emplacements wondering at the courage it took to leave your Higgins Boat,
wade in the surf into a steel curtain of death; looking over the heights of
Pointe du Hoc down to the sea where Rangers began their near impossible climb;
the quiet sadness of the rarely visited cemetery where the German dead from
that fateful day lie buried.
I remember all those images and I recall the veterans of
that day, now old men walking slowly with comrades and family remembering what
they probably wish they could forget.
I remember the dignitaries and speeches and bands, but there is one
memory that stands out over all the rest.
The American Cemetery, located at Colleville-sur-Mer stands
tall above the sands of Omaha beach on a perfectly manicured lawn bordered by
large evergreens. It has been
American soil since its dedication in 1956. There are some 10,000 American young men buried there in row
upon row of perfectly aligned, identical white crosses interspersed
occasionally with a Star of David.
It is a wide-open space but upon entering one has the feel of stepping
into a cathedral. Automatically
you walk slower and speak only in a hushed tone. You know that you are among the brave that will never grow
old.
I was there at a time when only a few other people were
present and so it was as I looked out onto Omaha Beach I caught a movement in
the corner of my eye. A man in
uniform was walking down the walkway not far from where I stood. He looked to
be in his mid-seventies but still lean enough to wear his khaki uniform festooned
with medals; his sergeant stripes on his sleeves. His walk was more of a march of military precision, ramrod
straight and purposeful; his eyes looking straight ahead. His arms were
outstretched at 90 degrees and he held before him a funeral wreath. He marched
about four rows past where I was standing, executed a perfect right face, moved
to a marker about midway down the row, made another right face and set the
wreath down in front of the marker.
Rising, he came to attention and saluted the grave, reached in to his
pocket and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. With trembling chin he came back to attention, saluted
again, and marched with the same precision back the way he came.
I have no idea as to this man’s identity and no idea whose
grave he came to honor. I knew
there was a story there I would love to know but felt that it would be
disgraceful to intrude into such a private moment. I had the impression it was not his first trip to honor this
long dead soldier and I doubted that, as long his health allowed, would it be
the last. I just watched him move
on as he had done after the war and as his friend had been unable to do. I knew I had witnessed a scene that
would always define for me the meaning of D-Day.
It is 15 years later and today there are far fewer old
soldiers in Normandy. In not many
more years there will be no one there to recall that day. D-Day will just be past history with no
eyewitnesses to the event and that is sad to contemplate. Treasure the few that remain while you can.
